


Comfort

by Steadfxst



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Camping, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Apocalypse, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steadfxst/pseuds/Steadfxst
Summary: Post-(political) apocalypse AU where Jim is hiding out with Bob, but he doesn't know the first thing about surviving off the land, so he makes mistakes, and Bob patches him up. Five times Jim pushes away the warm feelings Bob evokes in him, and the one time he doesn't.





	Comfort

“You need to wear gloves if you’re going to gather wood, Jim.”

Jim hisses as Bob pulls out another splinter from his palm.

“I’ll remember next time.”

“Good,” Bob says. “We can’t risk you getting an infection. Medicine is hard to come by.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Bob.”

“Don’t be.”

Bob dabs some cream on his tiny wounds, and Jim bites his lip. He’s not strong in the same way that Bob is. In fact, he was told many times growing up that he was “soft.” He doesn’t want to disappoint Bob.

“I won’t let you down.”

Bob looks up and nods.

“I know.”

With that, he pats Jim’s wrist and walks over to the fire to check on their dinner. Jim feels something within him stir as he watches Bob make their meal. Bob was so good at taking care of him. Jim pushes the feeling away.

 

* * *

 

“Jim, you have to make sure your laces are done up properly,” Bob admonishes.

Jim’s sprawled out on a log, propped up on his elbows while Bob checked his ankle. The air is cold on his bare skin without his shoe and sock, but Bob’s hands are warm as he pokes and prods him.

“You just rolled it. We’ll have to stay here for a few days.”

“A few days? Can we afford that?”

“We don’t really have a choice.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll have to stay off that foot completely. Keep it elevated, too.”

“Yes, Bob.”

Jim tries not to think about how he’s going to maneuver into his sleeping bag or into fresh clothes or into the woods to relieve himself without Bob’s help. He tries not to think about Bob seeing him bare, touching him. He tries not to think about—

“I’m going to refill our canteens,” Bob says, breaking Jim from his reverie. They’ve been following the river for days now. It’s nearby. “You gonna be alright by yourself?”

Jim nods and he watches Bob load the rifle and pick up the canteens. He’s breaking his promise to Bob already, and it makes his chest ache. He didn’t like being a liar. It felt rotten.

 

* * *

 

“You know how to shoot, Jim. You were the FBI’s Director.”

“I know.”

“What happened, Jim?”

Jim looks at his feet. He was quite taller than Bob, but he feels very small.

“I just couldn’t do it,” Jim says.

“Couldn’t do it?” Bob asks. “Jim, I don’t understand.”

Jim thinks back to the field. The field where he’d seen the doe and her fawns grazing. He had a clear shot. He might’ve been able to pick off the mother and the children if he’d been quick.

The deer made him think of Patrice and the kids. He’s glad they escaped north to Canada before the border closed. He had stubbornly stayed in the interest of law and order. He had insisted it was the right thing to do. But now? He’s not so sure.

To Bob, he says simply, “I can’t kill a mother.”

Bob sighs.

“Okay, Jim.”

They don’t eat that night, and Jim’s stomach grumbles. This ache, at least, he does not regret.

 

* * *

 

“Jim…”

“Water was colder than I thought it would be,” Jim says with a shrug.

He’s shivering.

“That’s because it’s only fifty degrees out,” Bob says, adding another log to the fire before sitting down beside Jim on the log.

“I really needed to wash. And shave.”

“You shave?” Bob asks.

Bob has a few days of stubble on his jaw and chin, the same salt and pepper color as his hair. Jim catches him scratching at his scruff now again. He’s only ever seen Bob clean shaven before.

Jim nods.

“I don’t need to often. I don’t like being scruffy.”

“Are you saying you think I need a shave, Jim?”

Jim smiles.

“Only if you want to. The scruff looks good on you.”

Bob arches a brow.

“Is that so?”

Jim nods. His cheeks feel hot. Maybe he was finally starting to warm up.

Bob pats his cheeks.

“In that case, maybe I’ll keep it for a while. Ann always hates stubble.”

“Patrice does too. She said it burned her—”

Jim cuts himself off, realizing what he was about to say. Bob cocks his head to the side, smiles knowingly.

“Ann says the same thing,” Bob says.

 

* * *

 

“We’ll have to buddy tape them,” Bob says.

Jim looks down at the ring finger on his right hand. It was red and throbbing, twisted out of joint after he had awkwardly tried to keep himself from slipping down an embankment. He should’ve been more careful.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says.

“There’s no reason to be.”

“I’m slowing you down.”

“Jim.”

“I am,” Jim insists. “I keep making mistakes. Potentially dangerous ones. You keep having to stop to nurse me back to health.”

“If you want me to flog you so you’ll feel better, just let me know. But from my point of view, it seems like you’re doing a pretty good job of it on your own.”

Jim blinks in surprise.

“Bob, I—”

“I’m not leaving you, and you’re not leaving me,” Bob says. “We’re stuck with each other, alright?”

Properly chastened, Jim says, “Alright.”

“I like nursing you. You’re a good patient. You always learn.”

Jim can’t help but beam at the gentle praise.

 

* * *

 

“You’re still shivering,” Bob says.

“I’m f-fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What’s y-your suggestion then, Bob?”

Bob undoes his sleeping bag and pats the space beside him.

“I’m too big for your s-sleeping bag.”

“Fine,” Bob says.

He climbs out of his bag, unzipping it all the way until it was one piece, like a large blanket. He carries his pillow along with him. Bob looms over him in the gloom.

“We need to move you closer to the fire. I’ll lie on your other side.”

He’s using his Director voice. The one that says he’s not to be questioned. Jim’s too achy, tired, and cold to put up a real fight. And to be honest, he doesn’t even really want to.

Once they’d resituated their tarps—one overhead, the other with Jim’s extra-long sleeping bag atop it—Bob says, “Alright, make some room. Then I’ll put my bag over us. You need body heat.”

Jim does as he’s told. His fingers are chilled, and he keeps his hands in his armpits as Bob tries to make himself comfortable. The extra weight and warmth of the sleeping bag is a godsend.

“Jesus, Jim.”

“W-what?”

“You’ve got too much leg.” Jim gives a stuttering laugh. He stops abruptly when Bob says, “Give me your hands.”

“Bob…”

“Let me help you, damn it.”

Obediently, Jim turns to his other side. His back enjoys the heat of the flames. His and Bob’s legs tangle until thigh is sandwiched between Bob’s. Jim offers him his hands, and Bob brings them to his mouth to blow on them a while before rubbing them, hard.

Jim hisses.

“That’s good,” Bob says. “It means you can still feel them. The ache is a good thing. How are your arms?”

“My arms?”

“You limbs, I mean. I need to check all of you.”

Bob’s hands let go of Jim’s and reach for his arms, rubbing them for a while, too. Jim tucks his face into Bob’s warm pillow and even warmer neck. He smells like pine and dirt and smoke.

Bob reaches under his shirt and sweatshirt for the bare skin of his torso. Jim shivers again. Bob is so *warm*. How was he so warm? Jim doesn’t think he’s even been that warm before. Jim moans.

“I know it hurts. You’re doing fine. No more bathing. Not until it gets warmer or until we get further south.”

Jim doesn’t know how to explain that that wasn’t a moan of pain. Not totally.

“How are your legs?”

“They’re alright.”

His toes were still cold, though he’s not sure Bob can do much about that other than wait for the wool socks to do their job. Bob’s hands trail down his torso towards his waistband.

“Bob, don’t,” whines Jim.

He sounds petulant, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want Bob to know what he’s inadvertently doing to him. Bob is trying to help him out of yet another mess he’s gotten himself in, and here he was, turning it into something impure.

“I won’t, Jim. I won’t touch you there.”

Bob rubs his hands over Jim’s belly, and he feels his dick jump.

He did. He did want Bob to touch him there.

“Bob,” Jim whimpers.

He’s not sure what he’s even asking for.

“It’s alright. It’s a good thing,” Bob says. “It means you have blood flow everywhere. It’s natural.”

Natural? Was it natural to want to rut up against your former superior in the middle of the woods in the middle of a national crisis?

“It’s okay. Do what you need to do. I won’t touch you there,” Bob repeats.

Jim knows he can’t resist such tempting permission. He reaches into his thermal underclothes and takes hold of himself. He’s hot and hard already. He begins to stoke and bites his lip.

“There,” Bob continues. “That’s good. That’s so good, Jim.”

Perhaps if he had more of his wits about him, he’d feel more ashamed, more humiliated. But this moment feels like the culmination of a lot of other little moments. All the times Bob had cared for him. Was this not just another extension of that? Was there a better way to show boundless affection that sharing body heat and protection in the midst of a personal crisis?

Jim didn’t think so. He decided he could freak out later if he still felt he needed to. But for now, he decided to let himself have this. To let himself have this one sweet moment of security in Bob’s arms.

“I’m gonna come,” Jim murmurs.

“I want you to,” Bob says.

Bob’s eyes search his face, and Jim briefly wonders what he’s looking for and what he sees, when his eyes suddenly slam shut as his orgasm overtakes him. He’s sure he’s loud, too. He’s panting when he comes down from his rush.

In a fit of bravery—or perhaps stupidity—Jim’s lips seek Bob’s. Jim kisses him openly. It is sluggish and thick with desire and exhaustion. Bob allows it for a moment before he pulls away.

Bob presses a handkerchief from his pocket into Jim’s hands. Jim wipes himself clean—or as cleanly as he could—and Bob tosses the soiled handkerchief into the fire.

“Better?”

“Mhmmm,” Jim murmurs.

“We should sleep now.”

Jim agrees, but first:

“Thank you, Bob.”

“You’re welcome, Jim.”

For the first time in month, pressed up close beside Bob, Jim sleeps soundly, all through the night.


End file.
